


Gwaith i Innas Lain: Quenta Ando Rauco

by San Antonio Rose (ramblin_rosie)



Series: Gwaith i Innas Lain [1]
Category: Supernatural, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Cross-Posted on LiveJournal, Episode: s02e21 All Hell Breaks Loose, Episode: s02e22 All Hell Breaks Loose, Gen, Seventh Age, Supernatural Crossover Big Bang Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-03
Updated: 2011-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27860814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ramblin_rosie/pseuds/San%20Antonio%20Rose
Summary: You are tracking a Chevy Impala with two young hunters, I believe. They passed this way, the day before yesterday; and they met someone that they did not expect. Does that comfort you? (Honorable Mention for Favorite Crossover in the 2013 Many Paths Tread Tree and Flower Awards!)
Series: Gwaith i Innas Lain [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2039682
Kudos: 3





	1. A Chance-Meeting

He alone of his brothers survived the First Age; the remnants of his house fell in the Second Age, and his people barely survived the Third and left Middle-earth at its ending. Well, most did. _His_ lot was not so kind. He wandered through the Fourth and Fifth Ages and much of the Sixth—ages were shorter now—not able to fade like some Eldar, but learning to make his way in a world dominated by Men, hiding his true nature and abilities as Men forgot the Elder Days and fell slowly into darkness. In time he chanced upon fair-haired Men who called themselves Vikings and went with them on a voyage west to explore the new lands thrown up by the Breaking of the World. Their ship did not find the Straight Road—how could it, bearing one of the Dispossessed?—but they did find a fair realm they called Vinland.

In the ways that mattered most, Vinland was still Middle-earth, subject to death and the works of evil wills. But it was a fair land, and the Atani who dwelt there were new to him, and so he stayed. When the Vikings left, he wandered the length and breadth of the continents that would centuries later be called _America_ , teaching and learning from those natives who would welcome a tall stranger with the light of Aman in his eyes. And he stayed even though the Secondborn of the old lands came to conquer the new ones and eventually made wholly new nations of them.

Then the world changed again in the last centuries of the Sixth Age, and suddenly the New World was one of the few safe places he could still hide. So he wandered the land called the United States and learned the new forms of music called “jazz” and “blues” and “rock ’n’ roll,” and though he shunned every offer of a recording contract, those who heard him in juke joints and honky-tonks and any other humble place he sang acclaimed him still as the greatest voice they had ever heard.

In these humble places, however, he met “hunters,” mortal men—and sometimes women—who took it upon themselves to hunt the foul creatures that still haunted the shadows and made Isil and the stars of Elentári omens to be feared. He seldom revealed his name to these hunters and never explained that he was not a Man. But from time to time they had need of his aid, and he gave it willingly, hoping in some small way to atone for the wrongdoing of his past ( _twelve thousand years_ and still the blood-guilt would not leave him). And in return they left him alone, did not question the shape of his ears or the agelessness of his face or anything else that marked him as other.

He adapted. He survived. He was different, but most people did not disturb him or despise him save as “one o’ them hippies” because his hair was long, the shape of his ears hidden by a native headband, and he had not mastered the art of driving a car. But in all those years, he saw no familiar faces, nothing that reminded him of Beleriand-that-was or of Aman.

So he was startled one rainy night in Tulië of the sixty-third year of the Seventh Age, while eating in a diner in a small Colorado town, to see outside an old black car that brought to mind a name he had not thought of in four Ages: _Turambar._

Then he shook his head to clear it, for they were twain, the men in the car, clearly brothers, and neither so dark as Túrin Turambar was said to be. Yet as he watched them and heeded the Song as it told of them, the comparisons persisted and Túrin’s chosen names practically applied themselves to the youths. Both _fëar_ bore the scars of injustice suffered—Neithan; both shone with a light peculiar to the Dúnedain, stronger than he’d seen in centuries—Adanedhel. The elder, so cocky, self-assured, that was Mormegil, the fearless Black Sword; he would master fate if he could, face any foe, and follow no law but his own sense of right and wrong. But the younger, the taller... that was Agarwaen son of Úmarth, the man with curse and dragon-spell upon him, his home and family torn from him by the forces of evil, desiring to do right but caught between his own flaws and the curse that bound his fate from his earliest days.

But if Túrin, in whatever form, had truly returned to Middle-earth, that would mean the Dagor Dagorath was imminent, and this Age was not even a full century old. He had to be imagining things. He shook his head once more and took another sip of coffee.

And swallowed it in a hurry as the Song shifted in a way that warned of approaching danger—specifically, the Unhoused, dark spirits these Atani called by the Greek name _demons_.

He knew from long experience what commands demons would and would not respond to. They had not responded to Elven tongues in over an Age, never mind the oldest or newest tongues of Western Men, and his pride would not let him stoop to the Latin the hunters seemed to prefer. That left Valarin or Black Speech. He was ashamed to admit even knowing the latter, but it did sometimes serve....

Barely had he managed to recall the words he needed when a group of possessed mortals, reeking of sulfur, appeared in the diner at the exact moment Agarwaen got out of the car.

His breath caught. _An ambush_. Just like Glaurung had laid for Túrin in the First Age. But to what purpose?

The Atani in the room were dead before he could even react, but he stood and shouted the incantation in Black Speech just as Agarwaen entered and was caught. The spirits shrieked and fled their stolen _hroar_ in foul-smelling bursts of black smoke, and Agarwaen was left panting and shaken but apparently unharmed.

“How fare you?” he asked, making his way to the youth to steady him.

“Fine,” Agarwaen replied, still gasping for breath. “Thanks... I mean, for that. The rescue.”

“No problem.” The modern idiom still felt a bit odd, but then, English had never been his favorite language.

Agarwaen looked up at him then—that was surely unusual for the young Dúnadan, being accounted tall among his own kind—and frowned in confusion. “I... think I understood what you said. But I’ve never heard that language before.”

The frown was returned, but before the conversation could continue, a frantic Mormegil burst into the diner with a shotgun and a shout of, “Dude, what the _hell?!_ ”

“I dunno,” was Agarwaen’s still-shaky response. “Demons grabbed me the second I walked through the door. This guy,” he nodded upward, “shouted some kind of exorcism and they took off.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

Mormegil took in the scene with a quick sweeping glance that spoke of long practice—another sure sign that these two were hunters—then looked up at his brother’s savior with mild surprise and cleared his throat. “Hey, uh, thanks.”

“No problem,” he repeated. “Such spirits are no friends of mine, either.”

Mormegil regarded him more closely. His tone was light when he spoke again, but there was wariness in his gaze. “What’s your name, friend?”

A loaded question, that, though Mormegil could not know why. Yet answering would be the best way to earn the young Men’s trust, and if they were as akin to Túrin as they seemed, they would need his help in dealing with a foe beyond the might of any Man.

He smiled gently. “I am Maglor Fëanorion.”

Mormegil simply blinked, but Agarwaen’s eyes grew wide with astonishment. “ _The_ Maglor Fëanorion?!”

Maglor bowed his head in acknowledgement.

“That name mean something to you, Sam?” Mormegil asked his brother.

Agarwaen— _Sam_ —nodded. “Yeah. I don’t remember where I read it, if it was in Dad’s journal or one of Bobby’s books, but somebody wrote down his name with a note: ‘We don’t know who or what he is, but he’s not dangerous and may be a friend.’”

Maglor let out a low, bitter chuckle. A Kinslayer, a son of Fëanor, accounted not dangerous and a friend to the Secondborn. The world had changed indeed.

Mormegil didn’t miss Maglor’s reaction. “You sure about that?”

Sam huffed in annoyance. “Dean. He just saved my life. I think we can trust him.”

Mormegil— _Dean_ —gave Maglor another appraising glance. Then he nodded once and came forward to shake the minstrel’s hand. “Well, Maglor, I’m Dean Winchester. This is my brother Sam.”

And suddenly some of their notes in the Song made more sense. “Sam and Dean Winchester,” Maglor mused as he shook their hands in turn. “Yes... I’ve heard of you. _Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielvo._ ”

“What does that mean?” Dean asked at the same time Sam asked, “What language is that?”

Maglor answered neither question. “We must leave this place at once. I don’t know what those demons had planned for Sam, but they will return. And they will be on guard against me as well.”

The brothers exchanged a look and nodded. “That your truck outside?” Dean asked.

“No. My belongings are here.” Maglor pointed to the pack and guitar case that still rested in the booth where he had been sitting, and a few quick strides were all he needed to cross the space to retrieve them.

“May be a tight squeeze getting you into the back seat,” Sam noted apologetically as Maglor recrossed the floor to rejoin the brothers.

“I will be fine,” Maglor assured him. “Let’s go.”

The street was clear, but running would look suspicious, so they walked swiftly back to the black car. Maglor folded his tall, thin frame into the back seat long enough for Sam and Dean to slide into the front, then stretched his legs out on the seat beside him as Dean drove away as quickly as they could without attracting attention. But they had not gone two blocks before Maglor sensed the demons returning.

“They come,” was all he said, and Dean pressed the gas pedal to the floor, seconds before the radio went out. A deputy started to follow and found his patrol car plowing into a group of demons that appeared on the street a split second too late to catch their quarry.

Once they were safely out of town, Dean slowed to a less reckless speed and made a couple of phone calls to try to learn what was happening. He then glanced at Maglor in the rearview mirror. “Hey, Maglor. Do you know any way to keep those demons from finding us again?”

Maglor thought for a moment. “I have one idea that might serve. But you must turn off the radio for a moment, as it will distract me.”

Dean frowned slightly and engaged in a silent conversation with his brother. Maglor had just begun to wonder whether they were using mind-speech when Dean finally nodded and turned off the radio.

Maglor reached into his pack and retrieved his harp. A pang shot through his heart as he checked the strings; this harp was practically his last piece of home, a begetting-day gift from his mother when he came of age, and he played it all too seldom now. But it was still in tune, and the strings seemed to vibrate of their own accord in anticipation. Nodding to himself, Maglor drew a breath and began to weave a song of protection and deliverance about the car.

Dean actually pulled over and stopped to listen and stare with Sam as Maglor continued to sing. Maglor himself was intent enough on the music that he barely noticed.

The three of them sat in silence for a moment after the song ended. Finally Dean whispered, “Dude. That... that was _awesome_.”

Maglor gave him a small smile and put away his harp. “We should not tarry.”

“Right, right.” Dean pulled himself together and pulled the car back onto the road.

Sam fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment while looking out the windshield at the road before turning back to Maglor. “Um, Maglor,” he began hesitantly, “don’t take this the wrong way, but... what are you? I mean, you’re clearly corporeal, and you look like a man, but we’ve never met a human with the power to do... whatever you just did.”

 _Definitely a hunter_ , Maglor thought with mild amusement and decided not to feign ignorance. “Can I trust you not to reveal my answer save at greatest need?”

Another silent conversation ensued between the brothers.

“We should probably tell Bobby,” Dean finally replied. “And maybe Ellen and Jo and Ash. But they’re cool, don’t worry.” He glanced at Sam. “Got some crazy hunters out after Sam ’cause he’s got freaky mind powers, so we understand wanting to keep some things on the downlow.”

“You mentioned Bobby before,” Maglor recalled. “Who is he?”

“Bobby Singer,” Sam answered. “He’s a friend of the family, kind of like a dad to us.”

“Ah. I have heard his name, yes—in fact, I may have met him once.” Just a decade or two before, if his memory of the bearded man called Bobby, with the gruff voice and kind eyes, was indeed of Bobby Singer. That wasn’t the name he had given in town, the one Maglor had sensed was not his right name, but he had helped the man to fell a werewolf—not a once-human skin-changer, as was common in these days, but one of the dread ancient race that Sauron had ruled in the First Age—and though the hunter had plainly recognized that Maglor wasn’t human, he had simply expressed his gratitude and promised to return the favor if ever he could. They had shaken hands, exchanged names, and parted company.

“Bobby’s cool,” Dean repeated. “And we’re not gonna hurt you.”

Still feeling compelled to trust the youths and to gain their trust by honesty, Maglor sighed. “Understand that I have not told anyone this truth in at least four thousand years.”

The brothers exchanged yet another glance and then looked back at Maglor expectantly, though Dean did so by looking in the rearview mirror so as to keep some attention on the road.

“ _Nanyë Elda_ —in the language of your people, I am an Elf. A Noldo, to be exact. My grandfather Finwë, one of the eldest of our kind, was made king of the Noldor when they made the Great Journey from the east to Aman, the Blessed Realm, where I was born long years before the Sun and Moon were made. My father Fëanor rebelled against the Valar and led our people back to Middle-earth. I have been doomed to exile ever since.”

“The Valar?” Sam frowned.

“Some Men call them gods,” Maglor explained, “though by right that name belongs only to Eru Ilúvatar, whom the Hebrews called Yahweh. Some call them the Lords of the West, some simply the Powers. But I suppose it is most accurate in your tongue to say that they are archangels, charged with shaping and ruling Arda—this world—as the regents of Ilúvatar.”

“And here I thought elves were short little twerps who lived at the North Pole,” Dean remarked.

Maglor laughed.

“Wait,” said Sam, his puzzled frown still in place. “You said Middle-earth. You mean like _Lord of the Rings_ Middle-earth?”

“Geek,” Dean muttered.

Maglor ignored Dean. “Yes. I don’t know how Professor Tolkien came by the Red Book of Westmarch or the other tales of the Elder Days, but his translation is accurate. The Rings of Power, save the One, were made by my nephew.”

A stunned silence lingered for a moment, only to be broken by a snort from Dean. “Now I know why you won’t tell anyone. They’ll think you’re crazy.”

“Dean!” Sam cried indignantly.

“I’m not saying he _is_ crazy,” Dean shot back. “I felt the power in that song the same as you. I can see something in him that tells me he ain’t lying. I’m just saying that most people wouldn’t believe _Lord of the Rings_ was real, never mind that some seven-foot-tall dude with long hair is really an Elf. Hell, he barely looks forty—you think anyone’s gonna buy that he’s older than the _Sun_?”

It was at this point in the conversation that Maglor decided to let the brothers squabble without his input and turned his attention to keeping watch for whatever dangers might attempt to waylay them before they reached... well, wherever it was that Dean was taking them.

* * *

The point in western Nebraska where they were to meet up with Bobby was ten minutes away, and Dean still didn’t know what to think of the not-human dude they’d picked up in Colorado. He hadn’t lied to Sam; every instinct told him that Maglor was leveling with them, and he wanted to trust the guy. But Elves? Angels? _Lord of the Rings_ being a translation of a true story? It was a lot to swallow all at once.

He really, _really_ didn’t want to know what would have happened to Sam if Maglor hadn’t been there, though. That much was certain. They owed him big time.

Bobby would know what to make of Maglor’s story. If not, he could pitch it to Ash as a hypothetical when he called back. _After_ they worked out what the demons were up to.

Speaking of Maglor, the self-proclaimed Elf had been strangely quiet since Dean and Sam started arguing. He vaguely recalled seeing some discussion somewhere online over whether or not Elves slept with their eyes open, but the times he’d glanced at the back seat, Maglor’s eyes seemed alert, even if his focus was in the middle distance somewhere. It was almost like he was listening for something.

“Hey,” Dean finally said. “You all right back there?”

Maglor didn’t seem startled at all as he returned Dean’s gaze via the rearview mirror. “Yes. I do not sense danger near us. But I do suggest that Sam remain in the car while you and I speak to Bobby in case they mean to catch us unawares.”

Dean shot a glance at Sam, who had dozed off somewhere in the last fifty miles. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Bobby was waiting for them when they arrived. “Who’s your friend?” he asked as Dean got out. “Looks like he might be taller’n Sam.”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, the Sasquatch has met his match.” Then he turned and nodded for Maglor to get out and was treated to a sight he rarely saw: Bobby open-mouthed in total astonishment.

“Maglor,” the older hunter breathed.

“ _Mae govannen_ , Bobby,” Maglor replied with a slight bow. “How fare you?”

“Older and grumpier, and I’ve got these two idjits givin’ me heart attacks every six weeks, but other’n that, I can’t complain. ’Course, _you_ don’t look a day older.”

Maglor laughed quietly.

“I’m amazed you even remember me. That werewolf hunt was, what, twenty years ago?”

“A generation to your kind. To mine, it was but yesterday. And we do not forget as easily as do Men.”

Dean frowned. “Wait, so we’re buyin’ this? This whole....”

“He’s an Elf, Dean,” Bobby nodded. “Whatever else he told you about himself, it’s more than he told me, but I’d wager it’s true. He ain’t stupid enough to lie to a hunter.”

Dean turned to Maglor. “I thought you said nobody knew.”

Maglor smiled. “I said I had not _told_ anyone. Bobby is a scholar, and he has had some little time to work out my true nature.”

Dean looked back at Bobby, who nodded again. “It’s true, son. All I had was a name.”

Dean sighed. “Well, I think _my_ mind is officially blown.”

Bobby and Maglor chuckled.

“So, Bobby, you got anything for us?”

Bobby unfolded a map of the continental US onto the hood of his truck. “This is it. All demonic signs and omens over the past month.”

The map was bare of any kind of markings.

“Are you joking? There’s nothing here.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, come on, there’s gotta be something. What about the normal, low-level stuff? You know, exorcisms, that kind of thing.”

Bobby shrugged. “That’s what I’m telling you: there’s nothing. It’s completely quiet.”

“ _Um siniath_ ,” Maglor murmured.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at the Elf. “What was that?”

“These are evil tidings. Seldom does the Enemy cease all activity for so long a period in these days. What is it you say—something must be up.”

That came out so stilted that Dean was almost tempted to ask where Maglor had learned English, but he was interrupted by some sort of noise from the field beyond the truck, then distracted from _that_ by his phone ringing. It was Ash.

Dean turned his back to the field and answered. “Ash, whaddaya got?”

Ash sounded like he wasn’t sure whether to be excited or scared. “Okay, listen, it’s a big negatory on the demons that tried to grab Sam. But I did find something.”

“Well, what?”

“I can’t talk over this line, Dean.”

Wait—were those _birds_ he was hearing behind him? At this hour of the night? And why did Maglor look as startled as Dean felt?

Ash was in the middle of telling Dean to come to the Roadhouse, but Maglor snatched the phone away from Dean and yelled into it, “ _Fly_ , you fool! The Houseless are almost upon you!”

Ash swore frantically, loudly enough for Dean to hear him, and hung up.

Maglor sheepishly handed the phone back. “I’m sorry, Dean. I should not have taken this from you.”

“There are demons heading for the Roadhouse?!” Bobby asked incredulously.

“So it seems,” Maglor nodded solemnly. “Enough of them to disturb the birds even this far away.”

Bobby shook his head. “Elf speaks bird. Figures.”

Dean frowned at his phone, then at Maglor, and then turned to Bobby. “Where would Ash go? Your place?”

“Probably.” Bobby sighed. “Better get movin’. I’ll call Ellen just to be safe.”

Nothing else needed to be said. Bobby went back to his truck, dialing his cell as he went, while Dean and Maglor walked back to the Impala.

Finally, Dean cracked a grin. “‘Fly, you fool’? Isn’t that Gandalf’s line?”

Maglor looked confused for a split second before realizing whom Dean meant and laughing. “I had not thought of it, but I suppose you’re right. Mercy, I have not heard Olórin’s voice in... six thousand years, perhaps? He was hunting for the creature Gollum when last our paths crossed.”

They got in the car, and Dean was just about to ask Maglor about the birds when Sam suddenly jolted awake with a gasp. The wild look in his eyes and the way his heart was pounding—hard enough to be seen through his shirt—told Dean that his brother hadn’t simply been startled by their return.

“Sam? What happened?” Dean demanded. “What did you see?”

“Yellow-Eyes,” Sam panted. “Ticked that he can’t find me. ’S rounding up the kids like me—fight to the death—’s like _Highlander_....”

“What, ‘there can be only one’?”

Sam nodded and closed his eyes against the remains of the headache that always came with his visions as he finally caught his breath. “Wants someone to lead a demon army in ‘the coming war’—I think he means the Apocalypse.”

“Dagor Dagorath,” Maglor whispered, so quietly Dean barely heard him. “ _Entulessë Morgotheva_.” He then made a harsh noise that was probably some kind of curse.

Dean made note of his muttering but stayed focused on Sam. “Did you get anything else?”

Sam shook his head.

Dean pulled out his cell phone and called Bobby. “Sam’s just had a vision,” he said as soon as Bobby answered. “It’s Yellow-Eyes; he’s after the kids like Sam.”

Bobby swore. “See if Maglor can help you find out more. Get back to my place as quick as you can after that.”

“Right.” Dean hung up and turned to repeat Bobby’s request to Maglor, only to find the Elf rummaging in his bag once more. “Maglor?”

“My hearing is superior to yours,” Maglor said by way of explanation. “I believe... ah. This should aid us.” And he pulled out what looked like a miniature bowling ball wrapped in silk.

Dean stared incredulously. “A crystal ball.”

Maglor chuckled. “Not of the sort you mean. The _palantír_ shows the present, not the future, and its crystalline structure differs from the glass used in fortune-tellers’ balls. Ada could have explained it better than I.”

Sam’s eyes popped open at that, and he added his own incredulous stare to Dean’s.

Maglor ignored them. “I should warn you, though, that I have not used this stone in... well, nearly four Ages, anyway. I cannot guarantee that it will show us what we need.”

“You’ll try, though, right?” Sam asked.

Maglor smiled kindly at him then, and Dean was nearly overwhelmed with the sense that he was looking at a very old and very powerful being who was _definitely_ not human. “Yes, Sam. I’ll try.”

With that, Maglor unwrapped the _palantír_ , which really did look like a crystal ball except that it was opaque and almost black, and set his hands on either side and stared into it. Both Sam and Dean craned over the seat to see, but beyond some flashes of light from the depths of the ball, they couldn’t make out much from where they sat.

“’S like watching someone else watch TV,” Sam murmured, and Dean silently agreed.

* * *

Maglor suppressed a chuckle as he settled in to use his _palantír_ —his, made by his father for his hand alone, not one of the seven brought from Númenor by Elendil. He was rather surprised that the Winchesters hadn’t recognized the name from the movies, but since Peter Jackson hadn’t gotten everything right, he supposed he shouldn’t have expected the youths to make the connection.

 _Focus_ , he told himself, and the stone sprang to life. He instinctively sent his gaze east, the direction whence evil often came in the Elder Days, and the stone was drawn to a town that looked deserted. Oddly, the first detail he made out was a bell graven with a picture of a great oak tree.

Frowning, Maglor began to search the eerie empty street for any sign of life. But apart from an intense sense of evil, he found nothing until—

_Hello?_

Maglor stayed the stone’s progress, and very shortly a young Man with curly dark hair and a hobbit-like air came out of a side alley. But he bore no seeing-stone; how could he have even sensed Maglor’s gaze, never mind spoken to him?

 _Hello?!_ the youth repeated, apparently calling with both voice and mind in his anxiety. _Is someone there?_

 _Can you hear me, young one?_ Maglor called back.

The Man blinked but replied only with mind-speech. _Yes. Who’s there?_

_My name is Maglor. I am a friend of Sam and Dean Winchester._

The Man’s eyes went wide. _Oh, thank God! My name’s Andy, Andy Gallagher. I’m a friend of Sam’s. I just woke up here; I have no idea where I am or what’s going on._

Maglor nodded, even though he knew Andy couldn’t see him. _Is anyone else there with you?_

_Not that I know of. Where are you?_

_Somewhere west of you. Sam and Dean are with me. Find a secure place, line the doors and windows with salt, and stay hidden. We’ll figure out where you are and come for you. Do not trust anyone you meet there, even in a dream, understood?_

Andy gulped and nodded. _Understood._

_Have you a weapon?_

Andy shook his head.

_Then choose a door fitted with iron. Perhaps a smithy—if there are iron filings, use those to line the doors, and keep an iron tool in your hand at all times._

Andy blinked in confusion, then nodded. _Blacksmith shop. Right._

Maglor nodded in return. _I’ll tell Sam and Dean what I have seen. We will be there as soon as we can._

_Okay. Thanks, man._

Maglor disengaged the stone and sank back on the seat with a sigh.

“Well?!” Dean demanded.

“Your friend Andy Gallagher has abruptly found himself in a deserted town, apparently alone. I counseled him to surround himself with salt and iron and wait for us.”

Sam frowned. “Do you know where?”

Maglor described what little he’d seen of the town, including the bell.

Sam cursed. “Cold Oak, South Dakota. Most haunted place in the US.”

Dean had his cell phone out again in a flash. “Bobby. Change of plans—we gotta get to Cold Oak, South Dakota. That kid Andy’s out there; it’s probably where Yellow-Eyes is taking all of ’em.”

“I gotta meet Ash and Ellen,” Bobby stated with an audible grimace.

“I will go with you,” Maglor told Dean quietly, and Dean repeated his statement to Bobby.

Bobby’s relief was palpable. “Maglor’s worth more than the five of us put together. Follow his lead, and you should be okay.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” Dean replied. “We’ll try to be to your place by morning.”

“Just be careful, ya idjits.”

Dean smiled and hung up.

Sam shook his head as Dean started the car. “Maglor, you don’t have to do this. It isn’t your fight.”

Both brothers were startled by the vehemence of Maglor’s response. “Is it not? If I mistake not, this ‘Yellow-Eyes’ owes allegiance to Melkor Morgoth, who has ever been an enemy of my house. Lucifer you name him, the Light-bringer, but he has hated light and beauty since Ilúvatar gave Being to the Song. My father was in Valmar the day Morgoth slew the Trees, fairest of living things made by Yavanna’s hand, to let Ungoliant, the great Spider, devour the living light and spin forth an Unlight the like of which you have never seen. Then they came to Formenos, my father’s city, and before that Darkness I and all my house fled save only my grandfather, and him Morgoth slew before stealing all the treasures my father had made, including the Silmarils, mightiest and holiest of jewels made by Elven hands.

“In our grief and rage we swore an oath, my father and brothers and I, an oath that long ages I have wished I could recant, to pursue to the ends of the World any creature that kept a Silmaril from us.” He shook his head sadly. “The oath is vain, for though we did regain them, we had forfeited our right to them by our deeds, and they are now lost to us indeed until Arda shall be unmade. It may be that my aid to you now will avail to secure the pardon of the Valar, should they deign to heed the plea of an unworthy exile. But whether they will or no, this much is true: you need such help as I would not withhold from any foe of Morgoth, especially not at his imminent return.”

The Winchesters blinked in unison, looked at each other, and looked back at Maglor, who returned their gaze with a determined look of his own.

“So you’re saying we’re stuck with you,” Dean summarized.

Maglor laughed, and the darkness of his earlier words left him. “If you like.”

Dean simply shook his head and pulled out onto the highway.


	2. Rendezvous with Destiny

Maglor had to give the Secondborn credit for one thing: when speed was vital, they could find ways of achieving it. The advent of steam engines that could travel as far in an hour as most horses could travel in a day had amazed him, but even that was too slow for Men in these times, now that the automobile had replaced the horse as the preferred mode of conveyance for most people. And on this occasion, haste was definitely needed. The journey to Cold Oak ought to have taken close to five hours at the speed limit, but the Impala was a powerfully-built car, and with Dean keeping the gas pedal pressed to the floor, they covered most of the distance in just over two hours. And Sam had made good use of the time by reloading his gun and Dean’s shotgun with regular ammunition rather than the specialized rounds they used for hunting monsters. Maglor, too, had armed himself, removing his sword from its hiding place in the back of his guitar case.

Sometime after 3 a.m., just as Dean announced that they’d be there in ten minutes, Maglor became aware of Andy attempting to reach out to him again, though without the _palantír_ the connection was tentative at best. He immediately reactivated the stone.

_Andy?_

Andy was clearly too panicked to articulate his thoughts via mind-speech; what Maglor got first was a series of flashing images—the inside of a smithy, the doors and windows all fitted and barred with iron, and a double line of iron filings and rock salt along the walls. He barely had time to send his approval before the image shifted to Andy’s view from the window of a dark-skinned soldier speaking with two panicked women. Just as the discussion began to get heated, a child’s unearthly laughter echoed through the buildings. One woman feigned a headache while the other walked out of sight, presumably in an attempt to leave the town, but moments later her screams mingled with the child’s laughter.

 _Acheri demon_ , Maglor realized and sensed Andy filing the information away.

Then the scene shifted again to what Maglor quickly discovered was a dreamscape in which something that looked like a Man with yellow eyes and a feral grin was speaking with Andy. The words it spoke befitted a servant of the Enemy, but their sentiment was familiar... it had said the same things to Sam just a few hours earlier.

The scene ended, and the _palantír_ resumed its usual function, showing Maglor Andy’s worried face rather than his anxious thoughts. Maglor took a deep breath and let it out again. _Are you armed, Andy?_

Andy glanced around. _I’ve got a poker and an old gun that probably doesn’t shoot anymore. It was behind the forge._

_Good. The poker will drive off the demon should it somehow get inside. If either of the other humans attacks you and the gun will not shoot, use the poker against them as well. But do not seek them out; remain hidden as best you can. We will be there shortly._

Andy nodded. _How soon is “shortly”?_

_Ten minutes, perhaps fifteen if we must hike any distance._

Andy blew the air out of his cheeks. _Fifteen. Okay, I... I think I can hold out that long. Thanks, Maglor._

Maglor disengaged the stone and told Sam and Dean what he had learned.

Sam frowned and reached for something in the floorboard beneath his feet. “Those women... did either of them look like this?” he asked, handing Maglor a piece of paper bearing a photo with the words “Missing: Ava Wilson” underneath.

Maglor studied the photo for a moment. “Yes. She was the one who feigned a headache.”

“Feigned?” Dean asked Sam.

“Faked,” Sam explained.

“Right. Too long since I had Shakespeare.”

“You’re sure it was a fake headache, though, Maglor?”

Maglor nodded. “It might have convinced the soldier, but it takes a great deal more skill to deceive me. And the headache came too close to the demon’s laughter to be coincidence. I fear she has fallen into sorcery.”

Sam’s face fell. “Controlling the demon, you mean.”

“Yes. Was she a friend of yours?”

“I... I’d hoped so. But then she disappeared five months ago. If she’s been in Cold Oak all this time....”

“There’s a good chance she’s gone darkside,” Dean concluded. “I’m sorry, Sammy.”

Sam’s jaw worked for a moment. “Andy... Andy’s okay, though, right?”

“Yes, Sam,” Maglor replied. “I sense no worse about him than I do about you, save perhaps his choice of intoxicants.”

Dean frowned. “Whoa, wait. What do you mean, ‘no worse’? What’s wrong with Sam?”

Maglor sighed. “I cannot explain it precisely in English. But it is said of Túrin Turambar that Glaurung, father of dragons, laid upon him a spell to deceive him and to prevent him from saving those whom he loved. What I sense... it feels a great deal like dragon-spell.”

Sam’s shoulders slumped.

“Sammy?” Dean prompted.

“Yellow-Eyes showed me in the vision. He... he did something to me, Dean, the night of the fire. Some kind of blood magic. I don’t... he showed me, but it didn’t make sense. And then Mom walked in and saw him.”

Dean cursed under his breath and tried to coax a final burst of speed from the Impala. Sam looked like he wanted to turn into a turtle and hide. Maglor briefly regretted having said anything... until he remembered a key piece of lore.

“I have not dealt with many dragons,” he began carefully, “and the ones I did face are now dead. Moreover, I know that dragon-hoards are notoriously difficult to disenchant. But I believe that the power of a dragon-spell upon a Man, if it be not lifted sooner, is broken when the dragon dies.”

Both Winchesters brightened at that.

“So all we gotta do is kill Yellow-Eyes,” Dean remarked, slowing down just enough to take the turn onto the dirt road leading to Cold Oak. “Which is exactly what we were planning to do anyway.”

“Dean, the Colt—”

“We’ll get it back, Sammy, one way or another. Or hell, maybe Maglor can make us a better one.”

“A better what?” Maglor frowned, confused.

“It’s a gun,” Sam said.

But Maglor heard no more than that—his thoughts were suddenly interrupted by _MAGLOR! HURRY!!_

“ _Noro lim!_ ” cried Maglor, and Dean made the Impala practically fly.

By the time they slammed to a halt where the trail narrowed too much to be passable by car, all three had their weapons at the ready, and Sam and Dean started running the second they left the car. Maglor kept pace with them until:

_MAGLOR!!!_

_We come!_ Maglor replied, running faster and leaving the Winchesters behind him. _Hold fast, Andy!_

He rounded a bend and found himself speeding down the main street just as the soldier snapped Ava Wilson’s neck. A dark cloud that had been forming behind the Man dissipated.

“All right, now,” Maglor heard the soldier say. “You gonna come out here, or am I gonna go in after you?”

 _Stall, Andy_ , Maglor sent. _I am nearly there._

“Look, we don’t have to do this,” came Andy’s quavering voice. “I’m... I guess I’m a telepath. I sent for some help. It’ll be here any minute.”

“You had one of those dreams, too, didn’t you?” said the soldier. “You know only one of us is getting out of here alive.”

“No. No, my friend, he’s like us. He’ll know what to do.”

“I do not want to play games, mister.”

“Please, will you _listen_ to me?! I don’t wanna die; I don’t wanna kill you; I just want to wait in here where it’s safe until help comes.”

The soldier reached up, ripped the door of the smithy off its hinges, and threw it aside as if it were no more than parchment. “Out here.”

Andy, white-faced but holding his poker as firmly as he could, appeared in the doorway. “ _Please_ don’t do this.”

The soldier pulled out a knife and swung at Andy... and the clash of steel against steel echoed down the empty street as the knife blade met the flat of Maglor’s sword.

“Enough,” said Maglor sternly and pushed the knife away, and the soldier staggered back to the middle of the street.

“... Maglor?” Andy ventured timidly.

Maglor didn’t take his eyes off the soldier. “Yes. How fare you, Andy?”

“Better now, thanks. I was really starting to think you guys weren’t gonna make it. Where, um....”

Just then Sam and Dean reached the far end of the street. “Hey!” Dean called. “What’s goin’ on here?”

Andy gave a little sob of relief.

“Only one of us is getting out of here,” the soldier repeated. “If we don’t play along, he’ll kill us all. What good’s it do for all of us to die? Now I can get out of here, I get close to the demon, I can kill him.”

“You are insane,” said Andy.

“You are _enspelled_ ,” corrected Maglor. “What makes you think you have the strength of mind to fight the very spirit that enslaved you, never mind attempting to do so unaided?”

The soldier drew himself up to his full height, which did little to aid him in staring down Maglor. “I’m stationed in Afghanistan. We get training in psychological warfare tactics before we deploy.”

“That may be of value in dealing with terrorists, but what of a demon who has the power to threaten more than your person and to promise more than release?”

Sam and Dean reached the smithy while Maglor was still talking. “Dude,” Sam panted, “you can’t trust Yellow-Eyes. You come with us, we can kill him together, and we all walk away free.”

The soldier eyed them warily. “How do I know you won’t turn on me?”

“You’re gonna have to take our word for it,” Dean replied. “But you’re better off trusting us than you are trusting a demon.”

The soldier looked from one human to another like a trapped wildcat.

“Just come with us,” Sam pleaded, lowering his gun. “Don’t do this. Don’t play into what it wants.”

The soldier stayed on edge for a moment longer before lunging toward Sam. Maglor blocked the knife once more, and suddenly a shot rang out and the soldier fell forward, dead.

Sam, Dean, and Maglor turned to see a shaken Andy looking down at the smoking pistol in his left hand. He swallowed hard and looked up at them again. “I... I guess it did still shoot after all.”

Maglor held out his hand, and Andy placed the pistol in it before dropping the poker and dissolving in tears.

Dean put a steadying hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Hey. It’s okay. You did good.”

“I... I didn’t want....”

“Dude, we were there last time, remember? We know.”

“Dean... are you _sure_....”

“We’ll all get out of here, Andy. Nobody else is dyin’ today.”

“I shall see to that,” Maglor agreed. “You three see to the dead.”

Sam sighed and made his way into the smithy for a shovel, and Maglor walked to the middle of the street and sang a song of cleansing and release. By the time both the burial and the song were finished, Isil was sinking below the treeline toward the western horizon and the sky was beginning to lighten in the east, though Maglor suspected it was not as noticeable to mortal eyes. Yet even Andy’s mood was somewhat lighter, sensing that the shades and spirits that had haunted the place had been dispelled. And all three young Men were beginning to succumb to exhaustion.

“I hate to ask this, Maglor,” said Dean, “but if I get us back to the highway and give you directions, do you think you can drive us to Bobby’s place in Sioux Falls? It’s pretty much a straight shot, not many towns in between.”

Maglor considered the request with trepidation. He had never been very confident when it came to cars and had given up trying sometime in the early 1960s, but Dean was clearly too tired to drive, and though they were safe enough for the moment, it would not be wise to tarry where Yellow-Eyes could find them in more than a dream. Moreover, if Maglor drove, the other three would not have to jam themselves into the front seat to leave him legroom.

“Perhaps you could sleep in the front seat?” he finally suggested. “Then if I have difficulties, I can wake you.”

Dean nodded. “Sure, dude. Thanks. C’mon, Andy, Sam, let’s get out of here.”

* * *

It was probably due to the totally unmerited favor of one of Oromë’s Maiar, but Maglor managed to get the Impala safely from Cold Oak to Sioux Falls shortly after sunrise, without going too slowly or having to wake Dean in a panic. He did have to wake Dean for instruction on how to park, but by then all three Men had gotten a solid two hours of sleep, and despite being groggy, Dean was able to talk Maglor through it quite calmly. Sam looked impressed.

No sooner had Maglor eased himself out of the driver’s seat and stretched his cramping muscles—he really was getting too old for this sort of thing—than he became aware of another young Man sitting on the porch of the house that presumably belonged to Bobby Singer. This youth, his fair hair styled in what Maglor vaguely recalled hearing termed a _mullet_ , was staring at Maglor with undisguised awe of a kind he had not seen in several centuries and mouthing words that were probably appreciative curses.

Once Sam and Dean had retrieved Maglor’s belongings from the back and their own belongings from the trunk, Dean led the way to the porch. “Maglor, this is Ash. Ash, Maglor. He’s an Elf.”

“Elf?” squeaked Andy from behind them.

“Oh, and Andy. He’s....”

“Like Sam,” Ash drawled, not taking his eyes off Maglor. “I remember. Maglor... you saved my life last night.”

“What happened?” Maglor, Dean, and Sam all asked at the same time.

Ash swallowed hard. “I took off like you told me to. Pulled the fire alarm on the way out. Got about five minutes down the road and started hearin’ traffic on the police scanner—the Roadhouse... the Roadhouse really was on fire. Burned to the ground, Ellen said. But it looks like everyone got out okay.”

“Ellen’s safe?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, she stayed to talk to the police, but she’ll be here for supper tonight.”

Sam sighed. “Sounds like we’ve all had a pretty rough night.”

“Gonna get rougher, my man. But Bobby says you got time enough to sleep before that. C’mon in.”

But Andy was still blinking stupidly at Maglor. “Elf? As in....”

“ _Lord of the Rings_ ,” the Winchesters chorused.

Maglor chuckled. “I suppose, for the moment, I have no need for this.” And he pulled off his headband and tucked his hair behind his ears.

Andy very nearly fainted. “You mean, I... I’ve been... demons and now... what else is real?”

“More like what _isn’t_ real,” Sam replied as he gently pushed Andy toward the front steps. “And that’s mainly aliens and unicorns.”

* * *

Having re-acclimated slightly to Maglor’s presence and the sense of power and age and tragedy and otherworldliness that hung about him like a cloak, Bobby was finding a good bit of private amusement in watching others’ reactions to the Elf. Currently, he was trying very hard not to laugh at Ellen, who was trying not to hyperventilate while watching Maglor, who had braided his hair back from his ears and was in the process of trying to dredge something out of the depths of his memory for Sam and Dean.

“He’s not even trying to hide it, is he?” she finally whispered to Bobby.

Bobby shrugged. “No need. He knows we ain’t gonna kill ’im.”

Her face darkened. “Gordon Walker might. You know he thinks we’re all monsters for sheltering Sam. What do you think he’ll do if he finds out we’re consorting with Elves?”

“Walker is a few fries short of a Happy Meal, and he ain’t welcome here. And you damn well better not tell anyone else about Maglor, either.”

“He’s the last one left, isn’t he?”

“That we know of. Might be more around that we just can’t see for whatever reason.”

Ellen looked at Maglor again and swallowed hard. “Maybe... if the world really is ending... maybe we’ll get to.”

“Dithanc,” Maglor finally recalled, and Sam dutifully wrote down the word. “That was his name in Sindarin. The Hebrews, I believe, called him Azazel. It was said that he was a fire spirit akin to those who inhabited the eldest of the fire-drakes, Glaurung and Ancalagon and their kind, but for many years he chose not to clothe himself in any kind of flesh. I have not heard of his possessing Men, but it is possible that his eyes would be yellow and not black if he did so. Glaurung’s eyes were golden.”

Sam tapped his notepad thoughtfully. “Azazel. Demon of the scapegoat.”

“That give you any ideas, Sammy?” Dean asked.

“Maybe.”

Bobby watched the boys as they talked with each other and with Maglor, and he was suddenly struck by the fact that the Elf brought out something in both of them that... well, he couldn’t say he’d _never_ seen it there before, but only rarely, only in flashes on hunts. Something in the set of their shoulders and the light in their eyes. Sure, Maglor seemed to bring out better qualities in all of them; Ash actually looked more like a physicist than a redneck, and Andy looked less like the slacker the boys had described him as. But Sam and Dean...

... Sam and Dean looked like the kind of heroes people used to write lays and romances about.

Musing and conversation alike were interrupted when Ash walked into the dining room and cleared his throat. “Now that we’re all here, I figure I might as well tell you what I found out yesterday that almost got me killed.”

“I was wonderin’ when you’d get around to that,” Dean replied.

“Trust me, _compadre_ , this is huge.” Ash spread a map of Wyoming on the table and pointed to an area in the southern part of the state marked with Xs. “Five churches, all built by Samuel Colt, the man who made that gun. All of ’em connected by private rail lines.” He tossed a satellite photo across to Sam and Dean and pulled out a Sharpie.

Dean frowned at the photo. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

“Oh, yes, brother. It is.” And Ash swiftly connected the markings on the map to form:

“A devil’s trap,” said Sam. “A 100-square-mile devil’s trap.”

Dean laughed. “That’s brilliant. Iron lines demons can’t cross.”

Ellen shook her head. “I’ve never heard of anything that massive.”

“No one has,” Bobby agreed.

“American ingenuity,” Maglor said with a small smile.

“There’s more,” Ash stated. “In the middle of this engineering marvel, there’s an old cowboy cemetery. And if my information is correct, the crypt in the center of that cemetery houses a Devil’s Gate.” He tapped the map. “This thing is guarding a portal to Hell.”

“No,” Maglor replied quietly. “Not to Hell.”

Everyone looked at him sharply.

Maglor took a drink of the wine he’d found in some dark corner of Bobby’s kitchen and explained, “The realm you call Hell, where the souls of evil Men receive everlasting punishment, is not in Arda; it is beyond the Walls of the World, reached only from Eru’s judgment seat in the Timeless Halls. As the saying goes, you can’t get there from here. We do not know how demons seem to travel from that realm to this, but one cannot simply open a door and walk through. However, that does not mean that _this_ door”—he pointed to the map—“does not hide anything dangerous. There was at that time a great infestation of evil spirits of every kind in that part of Wyoming, and Colt managed to drive them into a cavern lined with salt and iron and many strong wards. The gate itself is wrought of solid iron, and the lock can be opened only by inserting the barrel of a certain gun. His intention was that it should last until the end of the world.”

Sam nodded as the pieces came together. “That’s it. That’s the game plan. Azazel gives the Colt to the last player standing; that person opens the gate, unleashes hell on Earth, jump-starts the Apocalypse.”

Dean nodded as well. “Well, knowing that, we ought to be able to head ’im off at the pass. Hey, And...” He trailed off, looking around the room. “Where’s Andy?”

And that’s when they heard the cry of pain from outside.

* * *

Andy was restless. Mr. Singer’s house was dusty and crowded with books and papers and weapons, and that was without having Mr. Singer and Sam and Dean and Ash and Maglor all towering over him and making it feel even more crowded. He hated being the short one, not to mention the civilian. Plus, Maglor had done something to ward the house so tightly that Andy almost couldn’t breathe. And he was closing in on a full day since his last hit of marijuana, which always left him jittery.

Even if he wanted to leave, though, he had no way of getting anywhere unless he stole one of the junkers from the yard (Dean would kill him if he touched the Impala again). But he didn’t want to. He knew he was safer with the others. He didn’t want to be a bad guest, and it wasn’t like the others were treating him badly or even ignoring him. He just... needed a breath of fresh air.

So when Ash pulled out his map, Andy quietly slipped out of the dining room and out onto the porch. That tiny taste of freedom sent a pang of homesickness through him, and he settled down to meditate and daydream about being back in Guthrie, familiar sights, familiar sounds, settling into the back of his van with a good book and a good batch of weed....

“Howdy, Andy.”

Andy almost jumped out of his skin and turned to see Yellow-Eyes sitting next to him in the van. “What are you doing here?”

“Checking on you. And Sam Winchester. You don’t happen to know where he is, do you?”

“No.” And this was strictly true; Andy had no idea how long he’d been outside and whether Sam were still in the dining room or even still in the house.

Yellow-Eyes made a thoughtful noise. “Well, if they keep him hidden long enough, he’ll go stir-crazy. I need someone sane. So!” He clapped Andy on the knee. “Congratulations, Andy, you win the golden ticket.”

“Go to hell.”

“Been there. Done that.”

“I don’t care what you want me to do. The answer is no.”

“Not even if it means getting your darling little Tracy back? Or any other woman you want—hell, _every_ other woman you want; I’m not stingy. A house of your own. Steak and ice cream every Sunday. Health and wealth, all your wildest dreams come true.”

Andy wavered in spite of himself. He’d overheard enough of Maglor’s conversation with the Winchesters to be wary of falling for the promises Yellow-Eyes was making, but the temptation was almost too strong. And then he realized that, if nothing else, this was his chance to get some information on the grand plan Yellow-Eyes seemed to have.

“I’m listening.”

Yellow-Eyes manifested a map of Wyoming and pointed to a spot in the southern part of the state. “Meet me there tomorrow night, just after dark. And Andy? If you even think about telling Dean Winchester to meet you there....” He made some motion with his hand, and Andy’s heart seized. Andy yelped in pain. Then Yellow-Eyes chuckled cruelly and vanished, and Andy came back to reality with a major gasp.

“Get him inside,” Mrs. Harvelle was saying, and strong arms—Sam and Dean’s, he figured—lifted him and carried him past the ward barrier that now felt heaven-sent. He actually started breathing better once he was inside.

When they got him laid out on the couch, Andy finally dared to pry his eyes open and found himself on the receiving end of six very worried stares. “Uh. Hi.”

“What were you thinkin’, ya idjit?” Bobby growled.

“Sorry... just... needed some air.”

“What happened?” Dean demanded.

“Was meditating... Yellow-Eyes... showed up in my dream... told me to meet him... just west of Laramie... after dark tomorrow... don’t tell you... and he squeezed....” He rubbed at his aching chest.

“Aspirin,” said Ash and ran to get some.

“Maglor... dragon-spell... almost had me.”

“You did well to resist,” Maglor replied.

A few moments later, Ash ran back in with the aspirin, a glass of water, and his map. He waited while Andy downed the aspirin and caught his breath again, then held out the map, folded to show a giant star in a circle that had been drawn on it. “Just west of Laramie, you said. Whereabouts on here was it?”

Andy studied the map and pointed to a spot on the edge of the circle. “There.”

Sam nodded. “He can’t find me, so he’s gonna use Andy.”

“Use me for what?”

Dean patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it right now. Just rest. We’ll fill you in on the plan in the morning.”

“Dean. Whatever it is... I need to go.”

“You just had a heart attack, dude. Next time he could kill you.”

“Doesn’t matter. You need me. Told me... not to tell you... to _meet_ me there. Didn’t say... you couldn’t _take_ me there.”

Dean chuckled and patted his shoulder again. “Get some rest, Andy.”

He was asleep before the others finished leaving the room.

* * *

Maglor sighed as the group returned to the dining room. “I am not a healer. Even if I were, few of the herbs I would use to treat Andy grow here in America. But if he is as much like the Hobbits as he seems, he shall recover quickly.”

Bobby nodded. “Dunno about Hobbits, but it wouldn’t make sense for Yellow-Eyes to do anything to him that could keep him from playin’ his part.”

Dean looked up at Maglor. “So if we do this, if we kill Azazel and stop the Devil’s Gate from opening, we’ll have stopped the Apocalypse, right?”

“Possibly,” Maglor replied. “If in fact the time has come, if it is truly Ilúvatar’s will that all things as we now know them shall end ere long, there is naught we can do that will prevent its coming to pass. _But_ that does not mean we ought not try. If nothing else, we will force the Enemy to find another means to free his servants. If we can retrieve the gun and destroy it, the Enemy will be hard pressed indeed to free them!”

Dean nodded once. “Good enough.”

The hunters discussed their strategy long into the night, taking occasional hints from Maglor but mostly relying on their own knowledge of the way the world had changed since the Elder Days. When at last they retired to bed, they did so with a plan that covered every contingency they could envision and with confidence that they could thwart Azazel’s plan.

But Maglor could not sleep. He kept watch on the junkyard through the kitchen window, but his thoughts returned ceaselessly to the Doom of the Noldor, especially as it applied to his own family.

_To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass...._

Whatever doom lay upon the Winchesters, it was heavy enough without adding the curse of the House of Fëanor to it. Yet he could not see their meeting as only chance, and they could not hope to defeat Morgoth alone, unaided.

Finally, as dawn broke, Maglor turned his eyes to the West and prayed, _If this venture is to come to evil end, let that end be mine alone. I seek not vengeance for my house, nor glory for myself, only the safety of these bold young mortals. Let the fear of treason of kin unto kin be far from them._

Suddenly, as if in answer, the stillness of the early morning was broken by the cry of an eagle. And Maglor wept silently and knew that Manwë heard.


	3. The Devil's Gate

When Andy woke around 8 the next morning, feeling oddly refreshed, he discovered that Maglor and Mr. Singer had been outside since daybreak warding and loading vehicles for the trip to Wyoming. Dean and Mrs. Harvelle had split breakfast-making duties, and Sam and Ash were in the study tracking a sudden surge in demonic omens everywhere in Wyoming except the area where Ash had drawn the star in the circle.

“Guess that means the trap still works,” Sam stated.

Andy frowned. “Trap? What trap?”

Ash tapped the map. “This. Railroad lines that make a big ol’ devil’s trap. Demons are tryin’ to get to the Devil’s Gate”—here he pointed to the middle of the star—“but they can’t get across those iron lines.”

And suddenly Sam’s comment from the night before made sense. “But a human can. And since Yellow-Eyes can’t find Sam....”

“He’s gonna tell you to open it,” Sam nodded. “And he’ll give you a gun. You need to either shoot him with it or bring it to me and Dean, let one of us shoot him.”

Andy frowned. “Can you kill a demon that way?”

“With this gun, you can. But you’ll only get one shot.”

“No pressure,” Dean remarked from the kitchen.

Andy snorted. “Thanks, Dean. I think I’ll let you shoot the bad guy this time.”

Dean chuckled. “Fair enough. C’mon, let’s eat. Bobby wants to be on the road by 9.”

Andy, Ash, and Sam filed into the kitchen and sat down at the table, which Dean was loading with plates of bacon and sausage and eggs and waffles... and as soon as Andy sat down, Mrs. Harvelle set a bowl of oatmeal in front of him. Puzzled, Andy frowned and reached for the bacon, only to have Mrs. Harvelle smack his hand with a wooden spoon.

“You just had a heart attack,” she stated. “You need to watch your cholesterol.”

“Cholesterol wasn’t what caused it,” Andy objected.

“ _Oatmeal_.” Mrs. Harvelle had that look that moms get sometimes.

 _You’re not my real mother_ , Andy thought, but what he said was, “Can I have some bacon after I eat the oatmeal?”

“It’s ‘may I,’ and we’ll see.”

Much as he wanted to use his mind-control power to get her to agree, he really didn’t want to be a bad guest, and Dean was shooting him a warning look, so he settled for pouring maple syrup into the oatmeal. Mrs. Harvelle looked appeased; Dean gave him a single nod, while Sam gave him a thumbs-up; and Ash just said, “You’re makin’ me hungry for grits and molasses, dude.”

Sam blinked. “Is that how you eat grits? I always wondered.”

Dean looked disgusted. “Sam.”

“What? Just because it doesn’t have meat in it doesn’t make it any less of a valid breakfast food.”

“Stuff tastes like wallpaper paste.”

“Well, you would know, Dean. _I_ never ate glue as a child.”

“Dude, shut up.”

And the conversation for the rest of the meal continued in the same vein, dealing largely with culinary questions of zero interest to anyone raised north of the Mason-Dixon Line. Even Maglor and Mr. Singer contributed when they came inside. Andy did finish his oatmeal, but he also sneaked several pieces of bacon and a few bites of egg while Mrs. Harvelle wasn’t looking.

By the time everyone had eaten and Dean had finished packing coolers with enough food for both dinner and supper, it was ten minutes to 9. Ash claimed he’d be more useful monitoring omens from Bobby’s house, so he stayed behind, but everyone else headed out to the vehicles. The Impala was pulled up to the porch so Sam didn’t have to be unwarded for any longer than necessary, and it took Sam all of three seconds to get into the car and slam the door while the others were still walking outside—and Andy suddenly realized that he needed to choose whether to ride with the Winchesters or in the van with Mr. Singer and Mrs. Harvelle and their equipment. Maglor had some other precaution to prepare while they were on the road, so he needed the entire back seat of one vehicle to himself, but he claimed there would be enough room in the back of the Impala for him if Andy preferred the van. But Andy didn’t know what he preferred. He barely knew the older hunters, but although he got along with Sam and Dean okay, he didn’t know if he could handle a day-long road trip with them, especially since they intended to stop as seldom as possible.

“I hate to say this,” said Mr. Singer, “but if there’s any chance Azazel can still track Andy in spite of those wards, he shouldn’t be in the same vehicle as Sam.”

Mrs. Harvelle nodded. “And in case we get separated, we stand a better chance of one group still being able to get the Colt if we’ve got one ‘special child’ apiece.”

“The wards ought to hide Andy as well as they do Sam,” Maglor replied, “and it seems unlikely that Azazel will force another dream-vision, but I know from bitter experience not to underestimate the Enemy. And Ellen does have a point.”

“You sure you don’t mind bein’ crammed in the back seat again?” Dean asked Maglor. “The van would have more legroom.”

Maglor chuckled. “I shall manage, Dean.”

“Okay.” Dean clapped Andy on the shoulder. “We’ll see you in Wyoming, dude.”

Andy nodded. “Thanks, Dean.”

And with that, Maglor and Dean loaded themselves into the Impala while Mr. Singer led Mrs. Harvelle and Andy to the van.

Once they were settled, Mr. Singer turned to Andy. “You might want to go ahead and set your watch back. We’ll be changin’ time zones on the way.”

Andy nodded and started to do so. “How long is this trip supposed to take?”

“’Bout ten hours.”

“And what time does the sun go down?”

“According to the Naval Observatory, sunset’s around 8 local time. Won’t be fully dark for another half hour after that, though, so we’ll figure on Azazel showin’ up sometime between 8:30 and 9.”

“I see.” Andy finished setting his watch and then did the math. “Wait, so we’ll be getting there....”

“Two and a half hours early,” Mr. Singer nodded. “Gives us time to run into trouble and still get everything set up once we get there.”

Andy decided he didn’t want to know what kind of trouble Mr. Singer thought they might run into.

* * *

As it turned out, though, most of the drive was uneventful. Ash called every few hours with updates, mostly weather anomalies, but nothing was showing up outside the eastern border of Wyoming. Bobby and Ellen—they insisted that Andy call them by their first names—kept the conversation on pleasant topics, and somehow Andy managed to forget his nerves while they talked. When they weren’t talking, however, his thoughts drifted onto less comfortable topics like what he was going to do after that night. He wondered how much of his lack of ambition was innate and how much was due to the spell Maglor said he was under; he didn’t know if he’d still need the weed to keep the anger and anxiety at bay or if he could even stand to go back to living out of his van without his powers to con people out of things he needed to survive. Life had been so much easier before he met the Winchesters.

“Hey,” said Ellen gently, interrupting his reverie. “You’re thinking too loud.”

“I am? Uh, sorry, I....”

Bobby chuckled. “Not literally.”

“Oh.” Andy felt his cheeks flush.

Ellen chuckled, too. “Let’s all get through this hunt first. You can worry about what comes next once you’ve survived.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The wisdom of that policy, and of having left early and driven straight through, became clear when they crossed the border and ran straight into an electrical storm. Bobby had gotten a warning text from Sam, but the violence of the storm caught Andy off-guard; Ellen explained that it was probably due to the sheer number of demons that were circling the devil’s trap. Bobby was a skilled driver, however, and though the rain slowed them down and the wind tried to blow them off the road several times, they reached the church where they were meeting the Winchesters only half an hour or so behind schedule. The skies began clearing around Laramie, and the sun was shining by the time they got to the church.

Bobby parked on the inside of the curving railroad track that seemed to run through the church’s foundation, and when he got out, Andy saw that Dean had done the same. The church faced toward the center of the circle Andy recalled from Ash’s map; there were two more straight tracks coming out from the foundation at an acute angle, and Andy realized that he was looking at one of the points of the star. Dean and Maglor were sitting on the church steps, and Sam appeared to be dozing in the Impala’s front seat.

“Been waiting long?” Bobby called as Dean and Maglor got up to come help them unload.

“Nah, not too bad,” Dean replied. “Would you believe Sam slept all the way through that storm?”

“No,” Bobby and Ellen both said at the same time.

“... Would you believe since Laramie?”

Everyone laughed.

Andy didn’t know exactly what to expect when they started unloading the van; he hadn’t looked in the back for more than a moment or two on the road. But he was somewhat surprised at the charcoal grill, charcoal, cake pan, water bucket, anvil, fireplace tools, and sledgehammer. Maglor directed the hunters to set everything between the tracks in front of the church steps.

“Are we having burgers when this is over?” Andy asked.

“Mm, cheeseburgers,” said Dean absently.

Maglor laughed. “No, indeed. There is a metal object we will need to reshape, and this fire should suffice to heat it to malleability.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense.” Andy didn’t know anything about metalworking, but it did explain the anvil.

Once the makeshift forge was set up, the group went back to the Impala for a picnic supper, and then Bobby and Ellen headed off to guard the Devil’s Gate while Maglor produced the final piece of the puzzle from the Impala’s back seat: two cloaks that he handed to the Winchesters. “I cannot guarantee that these will render you completely invisible,” said Maglor, “but they carry the same wards as does the car and will shield you from unfriendly eyes, and once the sun has set, it will be most difficult for anyone to see you. You should be able to watch over Andy from the shadows without danger.”

Sam stared at his cloak in awe. “Y’know, when people talk about cloaking in sci-fi, it’s usually metaphorical.”

“Geek,” muttered Dean, amused. He then handed Maglor a sawed-off shotgun and a cell phone. “You shouldn’t be in any danger here, but if something goes sideways, this’ll hurt the demons more than your sword will; it’s got salt rounds. We’ll call and let the phone ring once when we’re on our way back.”

Maglor nodded. “Excellent. That should give me time enough to prepare the fire.” Then he looked at the guys for a moment and smiled. “It is long indeed since I had cause to name anyone an elf-friend, yet such have you been to me. Go with such blessing as I am able to bestow, and may the Valar protect you.”

Dean shook his head. “Hell, Maglor, we couldn’t have made it this far without you. Thanks for everything.”

“Dean’s right,” Sam agreed. “‘Thank you’ hardly seems adequate.”

“Can we name you ‘human-friend’?” Andy asked.

Maglor seemed genuinely embarrassed by that. “I hardly deserve that title, Andy— _Edennil_ was what Men called my cousin Finrod, and he did far more for the Edain than I ever have.”

“Well, you’re _our_ friend,” Sam stated. “I hope that means... something.”

“It does, Sam. It does.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Guess we should get goin’. We’re burnin’ daylight.”

“ _Navaer, nîn vellyn_ ,” Maglor said, and as Andy and Dean got into the car, he went back to the church.

It was a little over thirty miles to the rendezvous point, so Dean drove most of the way and parked well out of sight about half a mile out, just about the time the sun went down. Then he and Sam put on their cloaks and drew the hoods up far enough to hide their faces, and they walked with Andy most of the rest of the way. It was a little disconcerting for Andy, knowing that the Winchesters were there but having trouble actually seeing them in his peripheral vision as the daylight diminished, but he was more nervous about the impending confrontation than he was about anything else.

“Okay, dude,” said Dean as they got to a stand of trees a hundred yards or so from the rendezvous point. “Yellow-Eyes can’t cross iron, and even if he could, he wouldn’t want to cross into this devil’s trap. So to be safe, stand just inside the outside rail of the track. We’ll be right here, and if anything goes wrong, we’ll come help you. Get back here with the gun as fast as you can, and we’ll take it from there.”

Andy nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Good luck,” added Sam’s voice, but Andy could hardly see him now.

“Thanks, man. Same to you.” And he took a deep breath and crossed the remaining distance alone.

The twilight had pretty well faded by 8:30, and Andy was calming his nerves by staring at the rising moon and trying to remember whether one could see Tranquility Base from Earth when he heard Yellow-Eyes—Azazel, he reminded himself—say, “Howdy, Andy. Have a nice trip?”

Andy swallowed hard and did his best not to look the demon in the eye; even with iron on both sides of him, he didn’t feel safe. “I’m here. What do you want?”

Azazel pointed directly behind Andy. “Fifty miles that way, there’s a cemetery. A crypt. You’ve got to open that for me. Think you can manage that, sport?”

“How... how do I open it?”

“You’re gonna need a key.” Azazel pulled out a gun that looked antique.

Andy frowned. “How is a gun a key?”

“Oh, this isn’t just any gun, Andy. This is the only gun in the whole universe that can shoot me dead.” And he held the muzzle up to his head with a mocking grin before holding it out to Andy.

Andy took a deep breath and reached across the rail to take the gun.

Yellow-Eyes released the gun but caught Andy’s wrist. “Hey. Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Andy forced his eyes closed and tried to pull back. “Just let me go. I’ll do it, I swear, I just... just let me go.”

The grip on his wrist tightened. “Andy. Look at me.”

Andy sensed movement behind him a split second before the gun was pulled out of his hand, and he blindly grabbed Azazel’s shirt with both hands and yanked him across the rail. The demon cried out, and what felt like a strong electric shock ran up Andy’s arms, forcing him to let go just as a sharp, squeezing pain shot through his chest. He opened his eyes again in time to see Dean push back his hood and shoot Azazel squarely between his yellow eyes, snarling something about “That’s for our mother.” And the demon fell, seemingly burning from the inside out.

Something came loose and unraveled in Andy’s head—the spell, he figured. But the pain in his chest didn’t lessen, and it drove him to his knees.

“Hey! Whoa! Andy, you okay?” Dean was at his side almost at once, and Sam was right behind him.

“Heart,” Andy wheezed. “’S bad. Shocked me... when I pulled him... ’cross the rail.”

Dean swore bitterly. “Okay, c’mon, we’ll get you back to Laramie....”

“Don’t think... I’m gonna make it that long.”

“Aw, c’mon, dude, you can’t give up now.”

“’M not. D’ya kill it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

Andy looked over at Sam. “So we’re free.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, dude. We’re free.”

“’S all I... ever wanted.”

And suddenly he was standing outside the railroad tracks, watching as Dean felt vainly for a pulse in what used to be Andy’s body and Sam sadly closed the eyes that Andy didn’t need anymore. A storm had blown up out of nowhere, and Andy could see that it was raining where he was standing, but the raindrops were going straight through him. It was a really strange sensation.

“It’s time, Andy,” said a female voice. “My lord Mandos is waiting for you.”

He turned to see what looked like a dark-haired woman standing beside him. “Who are you?”

“I’m a Reaper. You can call me Tessa.”

Andy looked back at the Winchesters, who were calling the others. “They’ll be okay, right? I mean, the war’s over?”

“The battle is over,” Tessa said gently. “Don’t worry about the war. Just come with me.”

Andy sighed and took her hand.

* * *

While Bobby and Ellen took care of the corpses, Sam and Dean trudged back along the railroad track to the car and drove back to the church. Maglor was stirring the coals in the barbeque pit when they got there.

“You have had success?” he asked.

Dean sighed and tossed the Colt onto the anvil. “Yeah. He’s dead. But so is Andy—massive heart attack. Nothing we could do.”

The Elf nodded somberly. “I am sorry. Even one death is too many in so small a band as this. But at least he had a greater role to play than being murdered by one of the others in Cold Oak.”

Dean shrugged. It was true, and Andy had essentially sacrificed his own life to make sure Yellow-Eyes couldn’t escape before Dean shot him, but Dean didn’t have to like the loss any better.

“Dean. You cannot save everyone. But I believe you may have saved more lives than you know.” Maglor picked up the Colt and studied it for a moment before starting to remove the grip. “The virtue in this metal is diminished, but it has not been altogether lost... I shall have to think on it further after we ensure that it cannot be used for the Enemy’s purposes, but it may be that I can reforge it into another form that yet retains the ability to kill the Houseless.” And with that he stuck the gripless gun barrel-first into the hottest part of the fire, pulled out one live coal with his tongs, and closed the lid. The grip he placed in the cake pan and wedged the coal into the notch for the frame, causing the wood to ignite.

Dean frowned. “Why burn that out here?”

“The finish,” Sam replied. “Wouldn’t be wise for shellac fumes to contaminate the metal if he wants to use it again.”

Maglor nodded. “Exactly, Sam.”

Dean shrugged. “Guess that makes sense.” Then he went back to the car and pulled three beers out of the green cooler. “Want a beer, Maglor?”

Maglor considered for a moment. “Yes. Thank you, Dean.”

Dean handed one beer to Maglor and another to Sam, opened his own, and clinked bottles with Sam before taking a long drink. Then he nodded toward the church steps. “C’mon, dude. Let’s sit down.”

“You don’t want to sit in the car?” Sam frowned.

“Better vantage point. We don’t know if Yellow-Eyes had a Plan B. Can’t let our guard down too far.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Sam followed and sat down next to Dean on the top step, which was narrow enough that their shoulders touched. Maglor had brought one of Bobby’s lawn chairs for himself and sat in it to watch the fire. But there wasn’t really anything to say, so they didn’t talk for a while.

The churchyard was oddly quiet, given the demonic temper tantrum that had kicked up once Yellow-Eyes died. Dean suspected it was due to the demons’ not being able to figure out where in the trap he and Sam were. But it gave Dean a chance to really look at Sam now that the spell was broken, study him, try to see inside that shaggy emo head of his. It might be too soon to tell for sure, but Sam did seem... lighter somehow, brighter, cleaner, less shadowed, less likely to go darkside. And Dean had no idea how he could tell that. All he knew was that the things he’d always seen and loved in Sam were more obvious than ever.

After a while—he didn’t know how long, but it was some time after he’d finished his beer—he broke the silence. “Hey, Sam.”

“What?”

“How’s it feel?”

Sam thought for a moment. “You remember that time we got hexed in Virginia?”

Dean grimaced. “I’d rather not.”

“But remember what it felt like when Dad finally killed the witch and destroyed the altar? That kind of... snap of relief?”

“Yeah.” That was the first time Dean remembered being able to _feel_ a spell break.

“It was like that, only... I dunno, bigger, clearer. Like a lot of the anger and frustration broke, too, and... I’ve realized that a lot of things I thought I had reason to be angry about were lies. Things about you. Things about Dad. About hunting and school and ways I was... selfish, self-righteous? I dunno. Wrong.” He sighed. “I wish I could tell Dad I’m sorry.”

This kid. Dean didn’t even know where to begin. “Dad was wrong, too. Especially about you. But he did love you, even when he thought you were in danger of becoming a monster.” He paused. “That danger’s over, though. The spell’s broken. And I think you’ve got a good start on becoming the man I always knew you could be.”

“Dean.”

“I’m serious, dude. You’re the most awesome little brother I could have ever asked for. And I’m proud of you.”

Sam leaned against his shoulder ever so slightly. “Thanks, Dean.”

They sat like that for a moment until Dean cleared his throat and patted Sam on the knee, which he correctly took as his cue to stop leaning. Maglor had, by that point, gotten up to check the fire, so Dean asked, “Hey, Maglor, how soon’s the Colt gonna be hot enough?”

“Now.” Maglor pulled the gun out of the barbeque pit with the tongs and set it on the anvil, then picked up the hammer and brought it down squarely on the glowing barrel.

_Clang... clang... clang..._

“What are you doing?!”

Maglor didn’t even flinch at the voice, but Sam and Dean instantly had their guns trained on the dark-haired, trenchcoat-wearing man who hadn’t been standing behind Maglor a second ago. They were still inside the perimeter of the trap, so he couldn’t be a demon, but there was no telling what he _was_.

The stranger ignored them both and continued addressing Maglor’s back. “That gun—”

“Will not be opening any more doors,” said Maglor evenly, continuing to hammer the Colt’s barrel flat.

“But the Devil’s Gate must be opened—if not tonight, then some other time, and sooner than you may think. Those spirits must take part in the Apocalypse. It has been foretold.”

“Foretold by whom?” Maglor glanced over his shoulder then. “My people have heard no such prophecy, and neither, to my knowledge, had Samuel Colt. If the Enemy wants those spirits, he must find some other way to retrieve them.” And he went back to smashing the barrel, which was (to Dean’s untrained eye) starting to look a lot more like a knife than a gun.

The stranger wavered at that but stated, “The Eldar do not know everything, Maglor son of Fëanor.”

Maglor chuckled. “As a fellow wanderer once said, ‘Even the very wisest cannot see all ends.’ He, too, was a Maia.”

Sam stared in disbelief.

Dean frowned. “Wait—you’re sayin’ this guy is....”

The stranger sighed. “Yes, Dean. My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord.”

“By which,” added Maglor, “he means a Maia—of the people of Manwë, is that not so?”

Castiel frowned a little and cocked his head to one side. “How can you know that? I walked unseen among your people in Aman.”

Maglor shrugged. “I have known others of your kindred, both the great Eagles and those who clothe themselves in the forms of the Firstborn and Secondborn. There are certain... family resemblances, shall we say?”

Dean shook his head. “Hold on. You said you ‘walked unseen.’ You got some kind of magic ring that makes you invisible? Woulda thought you’d stick out in Elvenhome looking like that.”

Castiel looked even more puzzled. “Such a device is unnecessary for me. This is not my true visage.”

“Oh, so what visage is it, ‘holy tax accountant’?”

“In order to speak with you, I have clothed myself in the likeness of a devout man named Jimmy Novak. I believe he sells radio advertisements.”

“Wait, you’re _possessing_ —”

“No!” cried Castiel, alarmed. “I don’t need to steal another’s house. I am able to clothe myself in whatever form I choose. This is a likeness, nothing more.”

Sam lowered his gun. “You’ll have to forgive my brother, Castiel. It’s just... we’ve never met an angel before. We’re more used to dealing with monsters and demons.”

Castiel turned his intense blue eyes to Sam. “There is no need to apologize. Caution is a necessity in these times.”

Maglor set down his hammer and placed the Colt in the bucket of water, which hissed and boiled as it drew the heat away from the metal. Then he turned to face Castiel fully. “Tell us. How long have you been in Middle-earth?”

“Since the beginning of the Fifth Age, as have many in my garrison. My superior, Zachariah, has been here longer.”

“And how often do you communicate with Valinor?”

Castiel blinked. “I... don’t. Zachariah does.”

Maglor took a step forward. “Are you certain of that?”

“I... have no direct evidence. But I have seen no reason to doubt his word.”

Dean’s frown deepened. “What are you saying, Maglor?”

“I’m not saying anything,” Maglor replied. “Castiel seems an honest fellow, and surely he knows why we call history ‘the long defeat’ but battle the Enemy on every front nonetheless. But I still wonder whence this prophecy about the Devil’s Gate came. I doubt you need to be reminded that Saruman was once of your order.”

Castiel’s face became troubled. “Zachariah is not Curumo.”

“But you have both been away from Aman far longer than he was, and neither the air nor the earth here are as free of Morgoth’s influence. You, I deem, are not corrupted, but what of Zachariah?”

Castiel looked unhappily at Maglor for a moment, then at the cooling ex-gun. “You have already destroyed the Colt,” he said at last. “Perhaps Zachariah was mistaken.” And he vanished with the sound of huge wings beating.

Maglor nodded slowly. “I thought as much.”

Dean uncocked his gun and tucked it back into his waistband.

“Maglor?” asked Sam.

The Elf sighed. “He could have stopped me, Sam. He could have restored the Colt. He did neither. I think this affair went very differently than what Zachariah had planned and had sent Castiel to oversee, and that confused Castiel. If he loves the truth, as I believe he does, he will learn it, and he may become a valuable ally. But another Maia falling into the error of Saruman... if true, that is ill news indeed.”

Dean didn’t know what to say to that.

* * *

Some distance away, beyond even Elven earshot, Castiel appeared in a tree next to a brown-haired figure who was leaning against the trunk and munching casually on a Snickers bar. Said brunet offered a second Snickers to Castiel, who waved it off.

“No, thank you, brother.”

The other ‘man’ shrugged and put the second bar in his jacket pocket. “So. What’d I tell ya?”

Castiel sighed heavily. “Azazel is dead. Ash Buchholz did not die. Sam Winchester did not die. Dean Winchester did not make a deal with a crossroads demon. The Devil’s Gate did not open. The Colt is destroyed. All these things are good. But all but the first were to have been otherwise.” He shook his head. “Did Zachariah lie?”

“Probably. Rumor has it he’s been talking to Alatar, and rumor also has it that _Alatar_ has been trying to summon _Lilith_.”

“Rumor?”

“A little bird told me.”

“You mean Kali.”

“No names, no pack drill. But for the record, I haven’t seen Kali in a couple of Ages. She does hate the Blues Brothers, though.”

“What should I do, Rincaro? I have no proof, but....”

Rincaro the Trickster, a Maia of Lórien, made the empty candy wrapper vanish and leaned forward. “Look. You know I’m all for getting the Dagor Dagorath over with as soon as possible. But from what I hear, Zach’s acting like Dad’s on vacation and left us to do whatever we want to do with His toys. Yeah, Manwë’s in charge, always has been, but he talks to Dad _all. the. time._ And yeah, sometimes he gets things wrong, but he wouldn’t be wrong about this. If it’s time, it’s time, and it’s about time. But if Zach really has gone off the deep end, those two muttonheads are gonna need all the help they can get, ’cause we all know Túrin’s not coming back.”

Castiel studied Rincaro’s face. “You have a plan?”

Rincaro shrugged and opened the second Snickers. “Not as such—yet. Looks like the Winchesters bought us some time, thanks to Maglor. So we scout the opposition before the opening kickoff.”

Castiel huffed. “I really wish you would speak normally.”

Rincaro snorted and bit into his candy bar.

* * *

When the team of hunters returned to Sioux Falls, Maglor immediately got to work doing... something in Bobby’s workshop with the hunk of metal that used to be the Colt. Dean’s knowledge of metallurgy went no further than kinds of steel used in cars, and Sam’s didn’t even go that far, so they didn’t understand Maglor’s explanation and decided it wasn’t important enough to try. All that really mattered was that he was doing something with it. And Ash and Sam were doing something to research what, if anything, was coming next, and Dean and Bobby were busy helping Ellen recover what she could from the Roadhouse and move to Sioux Falls, so Maglor was pretty well left to his own devices for several days.

Once they were all together again, though, Maglor announced that he had a gift for each of the Winchesters. To Sam he handed a Bowie knife with a stag-horn handle that fit Sam’s hand perfectly; the eight-inch blade was engraved with runes, and Maglor explained that it was called Dagnir-en-Raughoth—Demons’ Bane.

Sam carefully tested the edge and smiled up at the Elf. “ _Le hannon_ ,” he said carefully.

Maglor smiled back, clearly both surprised and pleased that Sam knew any Sindarin at all. “ _I ’ell nîn_.”

To Dean Maglor presented the tiniest five-shot .45 revolver either brother had ever seen, also engraved with runes along the top of the barrel and on the sides and cylinder, along with a shoulder holster. “With iron rounds, it will kill demons as easily as did the Colt,” Maglor stated. “Its name is Maeglach, Piercing Flame.”

Dean studied the gun for a moment before running his fingers along the runes on the barrel. “What does this say?”

“ _Ú-gostathon ulunn_ —I will fear no monster.”

Dean grinned; it wasn’t an exact translation of _Non timebo mala_ , but it was close enough. “Awesome. Thanks, Maglor.”

As Dean slipped off his overshirt to try on the shoulder holster, Sam marveled at the change that had come over his brother in the past several days. Ever since Dean’s confession in River Grove that he was tired of hunting, Sam had become acutely aware of how world-weary Dean was despite the front he normally presented, how survivor guilt and grief over their father’s death weighed on him, and Sam knew the incident with the djinn had really done a number on Dean’s morale. He really didn’t want to think about what Dean would have done if Maglor hadn’t been able to stop the demons from taking him to Cold Oak and especially if Sam had died there. The fact that they’d killed Azazel and finally had some closure on the quest that had dominated both of their lives didn’t seem to have diminished Dean’s weariness, though he did seem less stressed. But somehow, being around Maglor, being protected by Elven magic, and even being named elf-friend had kindled something in Dean, something that Sam thought he might have seen flashes of before but had never seen as clearly as he could now. There was a light in his eyes that was more than happiness, an authority to his bearing that was more than experience. He was larger than life, heroic... lordly, even, if one could apply such an adjective to someone so determinedly blue-collar. It almost took Sam’s breath away.

And the funny thing was, Sam felt sure that Dean would never see those things in himself unless someone else mentioned them. Yeah, he could be arrogant, but their dad had effectively destroyed Dean’s sense of self-worth, and Sam had to confess that he’d done his share of underestimating Dean and cutting him down without meaning to. Now he wondered whether Dean would ever be able to see past his own faults to realize that deep down, he really was more awesome than Batman.

Maybe some time away from hunting to just be brothers for a while would help.

Dean caught him staring and frowned. “What?”

Sam cleared his throat. “Nothing. Just... makes you look like a real Fed.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You’re such a girl, Sam.”


	4. Postlude: Sure as I'm Sittin' Here

Bobby was off on a supply run with Ellen, and Sam and Ash were doing something nerdy with Bobby’s ancient computer and cursing his slow dial-up connection, and Dean... was bored. So he pulled two beers from the fridge and went to look for Maglor. After all, it wasn’t every day you shared a house with an honest-to-goodness Elf, and Dean figured he might as well take advantage of it, pick up some lore or something. And besides, the guy seemed lonely.

He got as far as the living room when a gentle strain of quiet music coming from the porch caught his ear. When he got to the door, he found Maglor sitting on the steps with his guitar, playing and looking up at the stars. So Dean stood inside the screen door to listen.

And then Maglor began to sing.

It wasn’t a song of power, like Dean had heard him sing before. If Dean had had to put a name to it, he would have called it a lament of sorts, though it was more melancholy than sorrowful. But when he closed his eyes, suddenly he could see the things Maglor was singing about, even though he didn’t understand a word of the lyrics—the splendor of Valinor, the beauty of the Trees, the fierce light of the stars when they were still unshadowed, the joy of the Elves when the world was young and they had not yet listened to the Devil’s lies, the love Maglor had for his brothers and parents and cousins. And underneath it all was deep, deep regret that those days were gone without recall and that Maglor had doomed himself to a life of solitary exile in a world slowly falling into darkness.

When the song ended, Dean was surprised to realize that he had tears running down his face. He quickly wiped them away and stepped outside.

Maglor looked around at him in surprise. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey. Thought you could use a cold one.”

“Thank you.” He held out his right hand to take the beer Dean held out to him, and Dean suddenly noticed the silver scars that covered his palm and fingers, almost as if he’d been burned.

“What happened to your hand?”

“The Silmaril.” Maglor took a swig of beer and wasn’t quite quick enough to hide his grimace at the taste.

Dean felt embarrassed as he sat down beside Maglor. “Sorry. This probably isn’t as good as the beer you used to get back home.”

“Nothing is as good as it once was,” Maglor murmured. “But I have definitely had worse,” he added more brightly before taking another drink.

Dean laughed and joined him, and they sat for a moment in companionable silence before Dean got up the courage to ask another question.

“So... you’re immortal, right?”

Maglor shrugged. “By some definitions. I can be slain, and I do age, though Men’s lives are too short for any to notice. But I will not die of old age or disease. What will become of us at the end of all things, even the wisest cannot say, for beyond it all foretelling is vain.”

“So what happens if you... I dunno, lose a limb? Do you grow another one, like starfish?”

Maglor smiled wryly. “Maedhros never did.”

“Who’s Maedhros?”

“My older brother. He was captured by Morgoth, who hung him by his wrist on the side of Thangorodrim. My cousin Fingon had to cut off his hand to free him.” He stared at his beer for a moment. “I sometimes wonder if that was why he jumped. He had, as you would put it, already been through hell and never quite recovered, and he couldn’t bear the thought of losing the use of his other hand. I did recover mine, but the healing was slow, and the memory of the pain has never left me.”

While Dean was still trying to formulate an adequate response to that, he suddenly got a mental image of himself, tortured and broken, surrounded by shadow and flame, and then being grabbed by someone who looked an awful lot like Castiel, burned by his brightness, pulled out of Hell... later finding a scar on his shoulder that was clearly a handprint, later still remembering fully what he’d been through and trying desperately not to reveal it to a Sam who had changed, whose whole demeanor screamed _one who consorts with demons_ even though Dean had gone to Hell to try to _save_ Sam, and Dean himself despairing to the point of being suicidally reckless when the war went so pear-shaped, he didn’t know which way was up....

“You remind me of him sometimes,” Maglor continued, pulling Dean back to the present.

“Of... of Maedhros?”

Maglor nodded. “In many ways he desired to be like our father and to finish the task Ada had set for us, but in temper he and I were more like our mother than the others.”

Dean snorted. “Sounds like our dads had a lot in common. Obsessed with revenge, not caring what it did to us.” He paused. “The last thing my dad said to me was that I had to save Sam, and if I couldn’t save him, I had to kill him. Who _says_ that to his son?”

“Ada charged us to fulfill our oath and avenge his death—and Daeradar’s, by extension, since his death was even more grievous to Ada than was the loss of the Silmarils. Mandos himself had warned us of what would follow, but Ada cared only for revenge.”

“See?” Dean shook his head. “I loved my dad. I still do. And I know he loved Sam and me. But now that he’s been gone... almost a year, I guess, I’ve... I’ve had to deal with the fact that he was wrong about a lot of things and dumped a lot of stuff on me that I should never have had to deal with. It wasn’t fair, and I didn’t deserve it.”

Maglor reached over and squeezed Dean’s shoulder. “You do well to admit such things. I know full well how hard that knowledge is. I could not truly come to terms with my father’s folly for many _yení_.”

It took Dean a moment to remember that a _yen_ was the equivalent of 144 years. “Damn, Maglor. I’m sorry.”

Maglor raised his beer. “To surviving fathers who knew not what they did.”

“Cheers.”

They clinked bottles and drank and sat in silence a while longer.

“So, Elvenhome. Is that, like, heaven on earth?”

Maglor shrugged. “It is as close to the glory of the Timeless Halls as can be found in Arda Marred. Yet even the heart of Valmar has not escaped sorrow and bloodshed. It, too, shall perish and be remade.” At Dean’s thoughtful nod, he added, “Do you not believe in Heaven or in God, Dean?”

Dean sighed. “If you’d asked me six months ago, I’d have said no. Now... I dunno. I’d like to.”

“But?”

Dean played with the label on his beer for a moment. “Mom always told me that angels were watching over me. It was the last thing she ever said to me. But she was wrong. Or... something. I dunno. All I know is, she died, and the angels didn’t do a damn thing to help her.” He paused again. “But now I’ve met one, briefly, and... I don’t even know what to think anymore.”

Maglor nodded. “The problem of pain. To that not even the Elves know the full answer. We can only trust that Eru will not permit His designs to be thwarted in the last, whatever scope there may be within them for the freedom of our wills. But on this I suppose I should refer you to a conversation my cousin Finrod had with a wise woman of the Edain, which Professor Tolkien translated some time ago.”

“Thanks, but philosophy was never really my thing. Maybe Sam will want to read it.” Dean paused. “What about you?”

Maglor shrugged. “It is no great thing to believe in what one knows.”

“You... know God?”

“I have not seen Ilúvatar as with sight,” Maglor said carefully. “But I have conversed long with the Valar and learned much from them. And I have beheld Yésu, His Son, the coming of the Old Hope which your ancestors long foretold and my people could scarce conceive. I chanced to be in Judea when He came.”

Dean stared. It was all he could do. He knew Maglor was old, but... he’d _actually seen_....

“‘The Word became flesh and dwelt among us,’” Maglor quoted quietly, “‘and we have seen His glory, glory as of the Only Begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.’ Thus He was.”

“Did... did you see Him... after?”

“As the Risen One?”

“Yeah.”

“I did. He seemed at once both a greater vision of Ilúvatar than I had yet beheld in Him and a vision of the glory of Men undimmed by the calamity that befell them in the East before they fled westward toward Beleriand. Not even in the Peredhil have I seen its like.” He shook his head. “Whatever may become of the Eldar when Arda shall end, the Redeemed among Men shall be like Him, and if we do not perish utterly, we shall see in you the greatness of the One and be amazed. For I do not think they lie who hold that Man was made in His image in a way that we were not, though we are close kin nonetheless.” He set down his beer and began picking out a slow tune on the guitar again.

Dean was torn. He’d rebelled against organized religion in part because of his sorrow over his mother’s death and in part because of his father’s atheism, and there were rules that ‘good’ Christians followed that he didn’t like, but... damn it, he didn’t want to go to Hell, and even though he’d always had a problem with authority and liked making mischief, one of the things he’d always wanted most was to _be good_ , to _do right_. He lied and stole because he had to, because the hunting life (at least according to John Winchester) left few alternatives, and he slept around because he liked sex and because being a hunter meant he couldn’t have the stable, committed relationship he craved, never mind marriage... but he did wonder sometimes if it meant he was going to Hell. If he could ever be good enough for anything else.

Maybe he’d been more messed up by his father’s lies and mistakes than he’d realized.

“Hey, um... do... do you think there’s a chance....” Dean didn’t even know how to phrase what he wanted to ask.

Maglor didn’t say anything, but suddenly Dean recognized what he was playing: “Carry On, Wayward Son.”

“... Maglor?”

“If either of us has cause to fear the Everlasting Dark, it is I,” Maglor said quietly, “for that was the consequence we called upon ourselves by the oath. I know not what Ilúvatar would say to thee were thou to stand before Him tonight. But thy deeds cannot have been so terrible as mine. Yet if....” His voice broke, and he stopped speaking for a moment to regain his composure. “If beyond all hope, I may gain His pardon, whom we named as witness to our oath, then surely pardon is available for thee. And such pardon I believe I saw in the eyes of the Risen One.”

Dean swallowed hard and looked out at the stars. And he didn’t exactly pray, but he hoped.


	5. Glossary

**Gwaith i Innas Lain:** Team Free Will  
**Quenta Ando Rauco:** The History of the Devil’s Gate

  
**Ancalagon** – greatest of dragons, slain at the end of the First Age  
 **Ada** – Dad  
 **Adanedhel** – Elf-man  
 **Agarwaen son of Úmarth** – Blood-stained, son of Ill-fate  
 **Aman** – The Blessed Realm, the continent where the Valar settled; once part of Arda, but removed to a different plane during the Breaking of the World, when Arda was changed from a flat planet to a globe, and now accessible only by the Straight Road, which is hidden from mortal eyes  
 **Arda** – Earth  
 **Atani** – Men (general term for humans)

 **Beleriand** – region in First Age Middle-earth where most of the events of _The Silmarillion_ take place; largely destroyed during the War of Wrath at the end of the First Age and lost completely in the Breaking of the World in the Second Age  
**Black Speech** – language invented by Sauron for the use of his minions (preserved for us mainly in the inscription on the One Ring)

 **Curumo** – Saruman’s name in Valinor

 **Dagor Dagorath** – the Last Battle/Armageddon (lit. “the battle of battles”)  
**Dithanc** – “Divided Below,” a (very) approximate translation of Azazel  
**Dúnedain** – Men of the West (singular _Dúnadan_ ); descendants of the Three Houses of the Elf-friends, some of whom have both Elven and human ancestry

 **Eldar** – Elves  
**Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielvo** – A star shines on the hour of our meeting  
**Elentári** – Star-queen (Sindarin _Elbereth_ ); another name for Varda, creator of the stars  
**Entulessë Morgotheva** – the Return of Morgoth

 **fëar** – souls  
**Firstborn** – Elves

 **Glaurung** – eldest of dragons, who placed a spell on Túrin and was later killed by him

 **the Houseless** – evil spirits, mainly souls of slain Elves who refused to go West, capable of possessing the unwary  
**hroar** – bodies

 **I ’ell nîn** – It is my pleasure (according to Realelvish.org)  
**Isil** – the Moon (Sindarin _Ithil_ )

 **Kinslayer** – Maglor and his brothers had some really bad ideas in the First Age that led to their killing other Elves

 **Le hannon** – Thank you

 **Morgoth** – the original Dark Lord (~ Lucifer)  
**Mormegil** – Black Sword (Túrin’s sword Gurthang was made of a black metal from a meteorite)

 **Navaer, nîn vellyn** – Farewell, my friends  
**Neithan** – The Wronged  
**Noro lim** – Ride on (go faster)

 **palantír** – seeing-stone (lit. “far-sight”)

 **Quenya** – High Elvish, the language common among Elves in Aman

 **Secondborn** – Men (humankind)  
**Silmarils** – greatest and holiest of jewels ever made by Fëanor  
**Sindarin** – Elvish language common among Elves and some Men in Middle-earth  
**the Song** – The Ainur (~ angels) sang the universe into existence, and that Song includes all of history, though neither the Valar nor the Elves know many of its details; Maglor, being an Elf and a bard, is particularly attuned to it

 **Tulië** – April/May  
**Turambar** – Master of Fate

 **Um siniath** – Evil tidings  
the Unhoused – see Houseless

 **Valarin** – language of the Valar


	6. Notes

Chapter 1  
Maglor’s dating of AHBL is based on the Reckoning of Rivendell and a note in the Encyclopedia of Arda, which is in turn based on one of Tolkien’s letters, speculating that the Sixth Age ended with WWII and that AD 2000 is Seventh Age 56.  
I’ll assume at least a passing knowledge of _Lord of the Rings_ in my notes. If you haven’t read enough of _The Silmarillion_ or _The Children of Húrin_ to know Túrin’s story, I won’t spoil it for you in this note; just know that Túrin was cursed by Morgoth and that the Elves believe he will come back at the end of time to have his revenge. Maglor assigns each Winchester one of Túrin’s aliases according to his personality. (CoH fans, if you’re at all interested in Sam and Dean as Túrin and Nienor, check out my [“Don’t You Cry No More”](http://sarosefics.livejournal.com/12928.html#cutid1)—it’s gen, Jossed by 6.16.)  
Maglor’s hiding his ears with a headband is a nod to _Star Trek IV_ , though I daresay Maglor would have hit on the idea several centuries before Roddenberry did. 

Chapter 2  
I did fiddle with the timeline quite a bit in this chapter—originally, according to hells_half_acre’s timeline, it took Dean a full 24 hours to find Sam, but that included a detour to the Roadhouse and the time it took to comb through the rubble. (The episode probably also didn’t start in Colorado; there’s no indication of where they are when Sam is grabbed, though, so I chose someplace west of South Dakota because Maglor’s first instinct would be to look east with the _palantír_.) Traditionally, 3 a.m. is when demons are most active because it’s the time furthest from the hour of Christ’s death.  
Several lines of dialogue are taken from AHBL 1 and 2.

Chapter 3  
On names: Ash’s surname is not given in canon, so I went with something of an inside joke—“Buchholz” means both “beech wood” and “book wood,” since early books often had covers made of beech (or ash!). “Rincaro” is Quenya for “trickster,” and I chose to make him purely the Trickster because in Tolkien-verse, it’s highly unlikely that Eönwë, the herald of the Valar, would pull the vanishing trick that SPN-Gabriel did. Alatar is one of the two Blue Wizards (hence the “Blues Brothers” crack); he and his friend Pallando came to Middle-earth with Saruman in the Third Age and promptly disappeared into the East, never to be heard from again. Tolkien speculated that they were responsible for founding the major Eastern mystery religions.  
_There will be more explanation of the conversation between Rincaro and Cas in the sequel!_ And yes, there will be a sequel later this summer.  
The idea for using the barbecue pit as a makeshift forge came from _Mythbusters_ (the “Sword vs. Gun” myth). The exchange between Andy and Azazel is adapted from the exchange between Azazel and Jake in AHBL 2.  
I had already decided to make Cas a Maia of Manwë before the “family resemblance” line came to me. Manwë’s chief messengers are birds, particularly eagles, and fandom’s always going on about Cas having birdlike traits—I don’t think that’s what Maglor meant (he was referring more to character traits), but it definitely fits.  
Translating the inscription on the Colt, “I will fear no evil,” into Sindarin for Maeglach the mini-Colt gave me quite a lot of trouble, for two reasons. First, the inscription on the Colt uses the feminine adjective _mala_ for “evil,” whereas the Vulgate uses the noun _malum_. Second, the extant Sindarin vocabulary doesn’t have an abstract noun for “evil,” and it doesn’t look like the adjectives _um_ and _ogol_ can be used as nouns like _evil_ is in English. Eirien Tuilinn’s Neo-Sindarin dictionary has _ulug_ as a reconstructed Sindarin form of the Quenya noun Tolkien used in a translation of the Lord’s Prayer, but it’s too uncertain whether _ulcu_ means just “evil” or “the evil one” for me to be confident using it in Psalm 23 (where the Septuagint uses a different word from Matthew 6); and in any case, the purpose of the Colt was never to fight evil in the abstract but to kill evil _creatures_ of all sorts.

Postlude  
This conversation was inspired by _Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth_ (The Debate of Finrod and Andreth), which appears in _Morgoth’s Ring_. Maglor alludes to it when he talks about the problem of pain. There are also echoes of Dean’s argument with his dream-self in “Dream a Little Dream of Me” and of “Houses of the Holy” and “Sin City” as well as _Laws and Customs among the Eldar_ , another piece that appears in _Morgoth’s Ring_ , and Deborah Judge’s fic [Bringing Gifts](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/1125879/1/Bringing_Gifts)—I’ve taken a very different tack with Maglor here, but it’s a great story nonetheless.


End file.
